. . . a funny old life with multiple sclerosis

Tag Archives: singleton

I was out with a friend, dressed casually, sipping a glass of wine with two hands in one of those faux-bonhomie wine bars with ‘ironic’ artwork and staff with obligatory piercings/sullen expressions/selective deafness. But I digress.

After looking longingly at their heels (sigh), I clocked that their partners were much younger. Nothing wrong with that. After collecting their drinks from the bar, they perched on the chairs next to us, so I couldn’t help but do a nosy.

The men (boys) seemed unable to sit still without squeezing the women every five minutes, in, ahem, not-totally-appropriate places. I’m no prude but this was seriously interrupting my fascinating conversation about my new Gorgonzola and steak recipe and I quickly lost my thread.

So we bar-hopped to the next place. Five minutes later, the same couples came tumbling through the door. To cut a long story short, I found myself in a place surrounded by eerily similar-looking twosomes, like some kind of weird parallel zone. ‘Yell at me if I ever get like that just to get a man when I’m that old’ I remarked smugly, casting my beady eye around the mayhem.

My former friend choked on his drink and said ‘they’re our age, look, that one’s got a ‘Still Flirty At 40’ badge on and that one’s definitely had Botox. They’re all in their 40’s. Like us.’

He was right. I sulked the rest of the evening, lying awake later that night pondering my Sad Single Situation. Is this the only way to date in my 40’s? As if it wasn’t hard enough being divorced with a grumpy Teenager, a rude cat and to top it all, MS, does entering my fifth decade condemn me to a life of body-con crash diets, hair extensions and laughing politely when my date burps the Welsh national anthem?

The only alternative seems to be joining an evening class in the autumn, perhaps signing up to Very Hot Indian Cooking, in the hope that I will find my soulmate over some poppadoms and mango chutney. I reckon the powers that be in adult education should start a brand-new class for ‘peeps who want to meet other peeps but have to pretend to be interested in Very Hot Indian Cooking or Yoga for Complete and Utter Numptys’. Heels and hair extensions preferred, but not essential…..

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During the first week of January (when I went to stock up on Creme Eggs), I briefly thought about boycotting my local newsagent.

On leaving the store I was brutally confronted with a huge display under the banner ‘Winter Essentials’.

Alongside the de-icer, Arctic-proof gloves and those grip things you attach to your shoes, was a stand full of Valentine’s cards, plastic red roses and cheap teddies holding sateen hearts. Pah.

So having a significant other is now a Winter Essential? Double pah.

Not long after, I had an email offering me and my significant other a ‘truly romantic experience on that most romantic day of the year’ at my local gastro-pub. A glass of cheap sparkling wine on arrival, a wilted red rose for ‘the lady’ and a three course lovingly-prepared meal to ‘tingle the palate’. And all for only £42 a head. Are they having a laugh?

The evil-singleton side of me toyed with the idea of schlepping along on that most romantic of days, sitting in the bar and watching awkward couples crammed into the restaurant. But that’s a bit mean. Isn’t it?

Maybe I should launch myself back onto the dating scene? There’s a few problems with that though:

MS

I still dress like a student and don’t wear strappy heels. And I haven’t mastered the art of a sophisticated up-do.

I would yawn my way though dates, and not solely because my companion is regaling me with tales of his pot-holing.

MS

I still need to lose a few stone pounds.

MS

My friends and family are very encouraging though. ‘It’s not about the MS, it’s about you, who you are.’ ‘You have lovely eyes.’ (what they say to fat people). And my ever-adoring son, ‘Have you sent off your application for the next series of The Undateables yet?’

Well I reckon we should scrap Valentine’s Day. Let’s have a new celebration, Singleton Day. This would involve buying an M&S meal-deal for a tenner (including a bottle of wine) and scoffing/quaffing the whole lot on our own, with ‘I Will Survive’ playing on a loop in the background. We could encourage our friends to send us boxes of chocolates to help us ease the pain. Three layers of mascara would be an essential, all the better to show our tears with.

So spare a thought for us sad, lonely, slipper-wearing, talking-to-the-cat peeps. And all donations of recycled men gratefully received…..

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Yes, as you’ve guessed by the blog title, I am a singleton on Shameless Commercialism Day Valentine’s Day. But the good news is, I had a Valentine’s card! The bad news is, it was from Tom, the 89 year old pensioner I check in on.

Well, at least I’m not working in an office any more. Long gone are those awful days when everyone else received bouquets of flowers, accompanied by ‘oh, I didn’t know that was going to happen’ squeals from various women jumping up and down at the sight of a few roses.

The same women who, a week earlier, could be heard saying in the toilets, ‘…I’ve told him, if he doesn’t send me flowers this year, he can whistle for, you know…’

Now my inadequacy is shared only with the cat (she watches the letterbox every day) and she’s on my side. I whinge to friends that I hate the tacky commercialism of Valentine’s Day and my heart sinks when all the gooey stuff appears in the shops just after Christmas. No sooner have the ‘Merry Christmas, my squidgy, squashy Boyfriend’ cards been packed away, I’m assaulted by a sea of red and pink. And roses. And fluffy little teddy bears with ‘I Wuv You’ scrawled across their chests.

And what’s this whole thing with chocolates? Oi, loved-up people, you get the flowers, you get the meal out, you get the jewellery. Can’t you keep your smug little paws off the chocolate – it’s for us single ladies. See it as our consolation prize.

Of course, if I was loved-up, I would be starry-eyed with rapture at being presented with a dozen red roses, a Tiffany necklace and a huge box of pralines (my favourites). I would benevolently smile down upon the lesser, single mortals, with pity and not a little smugness. May they too find love, poor, sad, lonely peeps. But I’m not loved-up, so I can’t. Sniff.

This Valentine’s Day then, I will mostly be listening to ‘I Am Woman’ (over and over again), hoovering up the Maltesers I stashed away from The Teenager and sitting on the sofa in my comfiest, slobbiest pyjamas. I may even put a face pack on and paint my toenails. Valentine’s Day? Meh…